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Crowley is afraid of water, has always been. He doesn't know why. It might have something to do with being a demon, an ancestral fear of being erased from existence by a single, tiny drop of holy water that renders him incapable of trusting any kind of water - bottled, rain, rivers, oceans, tears. It might, but he doesn't buy it. There must be more than that, there must. It can't be so easy.
There's no reason for such an insignificant detail to hold a deeper meaning - as if survival isn't a deep enough explanation, as if there could be something more compelling than his instinct trying to keep him, if not safe and sound, at least alive.
He still doesn't buy it.
It doesn't make any sense.
He feels the sand under his toes, tickling the soles of his feet. Dying waves crash against his ankles. It's nothing to be afraid of; actually, it's a nice sensation. Comforting. Soothing.
There must be more than that. He loves the sea. He loves sitting on the water edge, elbows buried in the wet sand, eyes fixed on the starry vault, chasing constellations he knows like the palm of his hand, as the rocking waves sing him a delicate lullaby. Then why does fear clutch at his heart, why can’t his restless mind find peace, why does a scream die in his paralysed throat, why can't he breathe, nor see?
There’s something in the back of his mind, something he’s missing, something important, so frightfully important. He can’t remember. He can’t shrug off the feeling that he should.
He tries not to panic when the water rises. There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all.
He likes this place, this little forgotten piece of Earth nobody, neither mortals or immortals, has miraculously ever found yet, except for him. Of course he loves London, its crowded streets, its moody weather, the tall buildings and the evergreen parks, the balance between modernity and antiquity, branches and roots, future and past. But sometimes it gets too much, too much noise, too much work, too many people, too many voices. Sometimes he feels trapped, no matter how big the city is - he feels trapped in his sleek apartment, in this fictional life he so carefully fabricated to disguise himself, to blend in, to fit in. And the walls cave in, and he can’t breathe, and gasps, and tries to hold on but to what, there’s nothing to hold on to, he’ll discorporate, it’s too much, he’ll drown, and…
But it’s different here. In the South Downs, on this isolated beach, there are no walls, no crowds, no responsibilities. There’s still water, though - it seems like he can’t get rid of it, he can’t escape it.
He should tell Aziraphale about this place, he’d love it too. Maybe, one day, they’ll find the guts to tell Heaven and Hell to fuck off and leave them alone - who does even need angels and demons in the 21st century? Human beings are independent, they don’t need occult forces to whisper in their ears to shove them in the pit of eternal damnation, nor ethereal ones to lead them to the path to salvation. Maybe, one day, there will be just the two of them, on this deserted shore, away from the pressure and the noise, free to be themselves, free to finally be together. And they will buy a cottage on a cliff, with a beautiful garden and an enormous library, and they’ll spend the night on the porch, and he’ll show his angel every star, and tell him every story, and they’ll laugh, they’ll laugh so hard, till their cheeks are wet with tears, and he’ll gaze at him adoringly and softly whisper… he’ll softly whisper…
He stares blankly into the distance, where the sun is sinking in the sea. What was he just thinking about? Something important, someone important. He can’t remember, and that train of thought is now forever lost.
There’s still water, though. He cannot escape.
~~~
He dreams about a storm. He dreams about cold rain against the shivering skin, wet hair stuck on his face, on his eyes, making it difficult to see.
He dreams about pleas for help and screams, about carrying something - he doesn’t want to think about what, exactly - in his arms, about bundles of clothes and limbs and watery eyes slipping from his grasp and falling into the void.
He shouts, and cries, and blesses and curses under his breath. His soaked wings are dragging him down, and he fights to keep flying, he tries to stop his saunter downward - another day, another night, another memory, another nightmare - he fights to survive, because he can’t give up right now, there’s so much more he still needs to do, so much more…
There are no more reference points, the sky embraces the earth, this ocean that wasn’t there a few hours ago, until there’s nothing to tell them apart, until there’s just water, water everywhere, above him, under him, all around him, in his robes, in his feathers, in his mouth and his nostrils.
It would be easy to give up, to lose himself to the flood. After all, he has nothing left, nothing to save, nothing to live for. If this is God’s will, then screw Them, and so be it.
He lets himself go. The water quickly fills his lungs, and his corporation reacts the human way, gasping for air, rebelling to the burning sensation spreading through his chest. Screw this body, too - screw human beings, for being so fragile, so easy to break and destroy; screw the divine justice that steps on them like little ants; screw the job he cannot get done, and all the souls he cannot tempt, and all the lives he cannot save, and all the things he can’t control, screw it all.
He dreams about a soft glow surrounding him gently shielding him, protecting him, carrying him away from this cursed place, away from this blessed rain.
Angel, he tries to call, but his lips won’t part, his voice is buried under all the water still in his throat.
Angel what are you doing why are you here why are you saving me what did I do to deserve to have you here now, what did I do
His head is spinning. There’s something he should say, something important, something he has to say now, before the opportunity is lost, before the moment is gone.
Angel, what is this warmth, why does it feel so right and yet so wrong, what have you done, what have I done, what are we doing, how do I make it stop, please, make it stop.
He sees Aziraphale’s eyes, so deep, so sad, so mournful, and he can’t stand the colour, he can’t stand to see the storm reflected in those eyes.
Take it away. Please.
There’s something he should say, something important.
Angel, I…
When he wakes up, tears stream down his cheeks, and he furiously wipes them, appalled. He has no idea why the Flood still upsets him. Yes, kids died because of him, they died because he couldn’t save them, but they weren’t the first ones, nor the last. It’s silly to still ruminate on that.
But there’s something else in the back, something he’s missing, something he can’t point his finger at. The last thing he remembers is the feeling of almost discorporating, and a lovely light dancing towards him through the rain. And then… and then…
He shivers and falls back into a dreamless oblivion.
~~~
«But what if it goes wrong?»
He sighs. «I’m afraid there might be no other way.»
Crowley swirls the wine around in his glass. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like it at all. There must be something else they could do, this is far too dangerous.
We could go off together.
No, that’s not an option. Even if they hid at the very end of the universe, they still wouldn’t be safe, Heaven and Hell would still find them and destroy them. And anyway, Aziraphale would never accept the offer; he fought so hard the save this planet, why would he want to leave it for… for what, exactly? For a new life on a deserted rock floating in space, with no company but that of his hereditary enemy? Why would he want that? Why would he choose him over humanity?
He swallows, the wine left untouched.
«You said it yourself. Angel, demon, might explode. You really want to take the risk?»
Aziraphale looks at him dead in the eyes, calm but determinate. There’s a hint of fear in the back of his stormy eyes - of course he’s afraid, what they’re about to do is extremely dangerous and, possibly, extremely stupid - but he won’t let himself be overwhelmed by it, not anymore. He’s had enough of living in fear.
They don’t know if it will work, they don’t even know if they’ll survive this desperate attempt, but they have to try; and if anything goes wrong, well, to die in each other’s arms, right here and right now, doesn’t sound too bad.
«Alright» he mumbles. But it’s not alright, how can anything be alright when Aziraphale’s life is on the line?
Their fingers gently intertwine. Aziraphale’s skin is warm and soft, and Crowley finds himself wishing they could stay like this forever, holding hands, safe and sound, finally together.
It only lasts for a moment.
Crowley’s essence slowly melts, so it can pass through the connection, like water through a faucet, flowing from one body to the other. Aziraphale is melting too, at the same time; they have to be very careful and perfectly synchronised; if they get the timing wrong, the consequences could be fatal. They need to focus, they must find a balance between being fluid enough to flow and keeping themselves together, lest they lose pieces of themselves along the way.
They try not to touch each other, not knowing what might happen if they accidentally do. However, the passage is too narrow, and the essences brush against one another; it feels like pure electricity, a shiver down their spine, if only they still had them in this weird forms that are not quite angelic and demonic but definitely aren’t human either. The touch feels intimate, far more intimate than anything their corporations could ever share.
Then, he sees it. There’s a brilliant spot inside of Aziraphale. It’s not his core - this thing is too little and too vulnerable to be the angel’s deepest self - but it glows with fierce intensity. It’s a bundle of memories and emotions he cannot quite comprehend, and it’s tightly wrapped by love. It’s obviously something private, and he really shouldn’t poke around, but he’s drawn to it by his instinct. He reaches for the globe, and the globe reaches for him, as if they belong to one another, as if that little thing is a piece of himself that went missing a long time ago. He panics when he finally sees a void inside of himself he never noticed before, a void in which the globe would fit perfectly. He starts to unravel those tangled memories, so familiar and yet so foreign; when he thinks he’s beginning to understand, he loses the thread, over and over again.
Something else is pulling at him, distracting him from the mystery at hand. It takes a while to realise what’s happening - when he does, he wishes he hadn’t.
A smaller, darker globe detaches from him and darts towards the wrong essence - and it’s a tragedy. Most of the time, he isn’t even aware of that core buried deep inside of him, but now that a fragment of it has been ripped away, pain hits with full force, leaving him gasping despite the absence of lungs.
He desperately tries to retrieve the rebel piece, but it’s too late, his essence is far too gone, far too away from his body, and the dark spot is still there, on the wrong side of the connection, and it’s nasty, and putrid, and evil, and he doesn’t want the angel to see, he doesn’t want him to see how much rotten lies beneath the surface.
It’s wrong, so wrong, no, no, angel, please stop! Stop!
It’s over in the blink of an eye. Crowley stares at his hands, except those are not his hands at all, they’re too soft, too perfectly manicured, and there’s no trace of messy black nail polish. Aziraphale’s body is like a warm, reassuring embrace around his soul, but he’s too shocked to register the feeling.
He’s seen everything, he knows everything, he knows how disgusting you are, he’s going to reject you and take his body back and leave you to die in a pool of holy water because that’s what you deserve.
Snake eyes slowly blink. They are not supposed to do that.
Would Heaven leave him alone if he smites me himself? Would he be safe?
«I- I think it worked.» Crowley's voice says, flat.
He holds his breath and wait for Aziraphale to say something, to see horror and disgust on the angel’s face - his own face, actually, as strange as that sounds.
Nothing happens. Crowley grows more and more anxious and impatient.
«Well?» he snaps.
«Well what?» he replies, puzzled.
«Aren’t you gonna say anything?»
«About what?»
He didn’t see it. A little part of Crowley - a bit of the worst part - is still inside that corporation and the angel hasn’t noticed it yet. Maybe there’s a chance he won’t, ever. He’s not so screwed, after all.
«’s nothing. - he dismisses, waving a hand - Forget it.»
Suddenly, Aziraphale looks hurt - Crowley can see that much, despite the body language being out of tune. It’s not the first time those snake eyes reflect pain, but this time it’s completely different - there’s no anger, no bitterness, no emptiness, just regret, and that’s new and unsettling.
«You… You saw them. The memories.» he whispers.
«No! I mean, yes! I mean, that’s not the point! The point is…» But he can’t bring up the point, he can’t risk Aziraphale seeing his true colours. He doesn’t lie about it - he simply dodges the point and makes another one instead.
«Why can’t I remember them? Even as I touched them, I couldn’t access them. Why?»
The angel puts a hand on his forearm, trying to comfort him. He doesn’t need comfort, Crowley wants to say, he’s not the one who’s crying, he’s not the one who’s grieving - what is he even grieving, what happened? He doesn’t need comfort, he’s just confused.
«I’m sorry, my dear boy. I’m so sorry.»
«Angel, what have I- what have you done?»
«I hope you will be able to forgive me, one day. I-»
One hour later, Crowley is in his bed, wrapped in silk sheets and Aziraphale’s corporation. He doesn’t notice it, bu there’s a new hole in his memories.
~~~
As soon as the foot touches water, he hisses and flinches from the tub, enough to break contact but not enough to let anyone in the room notice. The essence might be Aziraphale’s, but this body is still Crowley’s, and it has a muscle memory of its own.
He knows how the demon feels about water and, most importantly, he knows why, even though Crowley himself doesn’t.
He might not remember it, but Aziraphale does. He remembers when, six thousand years ago, in the Garden, he sensed love, and fear, and shielded him from the rain, cementing what would become a death sentence - he was too naive to realise that at the time. He remembers the day Crowley stubbornly dived into the storm to save as many children as possible, the sheer desperation in his eyes, the helplessness that would’ve made him drown, weren’t Aziraphale there to rescue him.
Angel, I…
He almost said it, almost, before passing out. Despite the concern, Aziraphale had felt relief. Those words were dangerous, as dangerous as holy water.
However, he said them, eventually. He said them in Alexandria, setting in motion the first snowball of what would become an avalanche, centuries later. He said them in Rome, after a temptation gone wrong, and in Seville, when he was so drunk that a memory wipe was a silly precaution - he would’ve forgotten everything anyway in the morning. He said them in Florence, and in Vienna, and in Edinburgh. He said them in Mayfair, and in the bookshop, in the Bentley, at Hyde Park. He uttered them shyly, and screamed them in frustration, while laughing, and crying, and everything in between. And he’ll never remember any of those instances.
But Aziraphale does. He clings to every single memory, he hoards them and protects them and never lets any of them fade away. One day, he’ll be able to share them with Crowley; one day, they’ll be able to overcome this absurd situation, to heal, to laugh about it, even; one day, they’ll finally break free. Right now, though, there’s only blind rage, against what pushed him into playing with Crowley’s mind, against the demons who are surrounding him, waiting impatiently for him to die an atrocious death, and, above all, against himself, who was forced to hurt Crowley against his own will and was unable to do anything to avoid it.
You pathetic excuse for an angel. You tried to keep him safe, and look what you’ve done.
The demons watch him carefully, they can’t wait to see him burn. They want a show, don’t they? Then a show they will get.
His mind win over this body. Soon, he’s in the tub, carelessly playing with holy water.
«I don’t suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck? »
You leave him alone. Understood?
~~~
Crowley is afraid of water, has always been. He doesn’t know why. It’s one of those things that’s intrinsically part of him, like his powerful imagination, or his insatiable curiosity, or his infallible optimism. It’s one of those things that makes him him. Does it really matter if there’s a proper explanation, a reason, a grand scheme? Well, truth be told, it does, but for the first time in forever he’s willing to stop searching for an answer. He’s fine with swimming in the ocean, as long as Aziraphale is there to save him if he gets lost in the waves.
The angel doesn’t seem as happy as he is. Is it because I’m going too fast? Crowley wonders. He showed him a cottage by the sea, a lovely house just for the two of them. It’s been a year since the averted Apocalypse and, despite having gotten much closer to each other, they still aren’t ready for such a big step, to share every day of their lives the way humans do. Still, Crowley wanted to show him, to let him know that that door was open, should they ever want to cross it; he wanted to let him know that, despite his fears, he’s not afraid, not anymore. He’s ready for a fresh start, by his side.
They lie on the sand, and Crowley is pointing at random stars, babbling about ancient stories set outside the flow of time and space.
«That one’s Beta Aquarii. It’s one of mine. They call it Sadalsuud, means “luck of lucks”. Ironic, since Aquarius also represents Deucalion and Pyrrha’s myth. Ngk, humans.»
«Isn’t that…»
«Yeah, the one about the flood. People love that stuff, for some reason.»
Silence follows, until it’s broken by sobs.
«Angel? What’s wrong?» Did I say something that upset you? Should I just shut up?
«I’m sorry. About the Flood.»
«’s fine. ‘twas a long time ago.»
«But it still- it affects you. I’m- I should have… done something.»
He doesn’t understand. Why talk about something that happened five thousand years ago? Why cry about it, not like it’s a tragedy for humanity, but like it’s a personal loss, like something died and the angel is still grieving it?
He doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal. He doesn’t even remember most of those forty days spent hiding in Noah’s ark.
«Aziraphale, what happened?»
One day, Crowley will retrieve the missing pieces. Right now, another hour goes by, unnoticed, swallowed by the moonlight.
There’s something he wanted to say, something important. It was about waves hitting him, drowning him, breaking his heart, something that maybe is a metaphor, or maybe not. He can’t remember.
Aziraphale’s cheeks are wet with tears, but he’s too afraid to ask what’s the matter. He assumes it’s because he is going too fast, after all, proposing him to escape from London to retire in this peaceful corner of the universe. He won’t ask again. He won’t ask about the Flood either.
He can’t remember. It’s just another memory to be added to the pile of lost things.
There’s still water, though, making him feel uncomfortable, circling around the voids in his mind. He cannot escape.